19. Maddox
19
MADDOX
Three Days Later
The sun’s barely threatening to rise as I tear down Main Street on my newly repaired bike. Six-thirty on a Thursday morning, and already I’m on a mission that has nothing to do with the garage or the diner.
Rowan’s been off for three days now—Brick’s idea, claiming she was working too hard and needed the break. I’m not buying the “sick” excuse. Not after Ryder showed up that first morning offering to “check on her” and then disappeared for half the damn day.
Whatever’s going on between them, it’s not my business.
Except it kind of feels like it is.
I lean into a turn, enjoying the familiar purr of my bike beneath me. This is the one Rowan trashed, and it’s now as good as new—better, even, with the upgrades I couldn’t resist adding during the repairs. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m riding to her place on the very machine she destroyed.
Wolf Pike is still mostly asleep, just a few early-shift workers heading to jobs and the occasional dog walker on the street. I’ve memorized the route to Rowan’s apartment building, though I’ve only been there twice before.
I park out front, taking the stairs two at a time. It’s time to fulfill our promise—letting her use one of our backup bikes now that our main rides are fixed. Ryder insisted on handling some “finishing touches” on the bike last night, working late in the garage with the door locked, which was weird even for him.
I knock once on Rowan’s door, surprised when it swings open at my touch. Not locked? That’s odd.
“Rowan?” I call out, stepping inside cautiously. The silence is broken only by the ticking of a clock somewhere in the kitchen. “Hello?”
The smell hits me then—rich, sweet, with something else underneath that I can’t quite place. I follow my nose to the kitchen counter, where a tray of what looks like cookies sits cooling on a rack. My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped breakfast in my rush to get here.
Surely she wouldn’t mind if I tried one. I pick up a square, still slightly warm, and take a bite.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, taking another bigger bite. The chocolate is deep and rich, with an earthy undertone that’s unusual but not unpleasant. I’m reaching for a second when a voice cuts through the apartment.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
I turn to find Rowan standing in the hallway entrance, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around her body. Her hair is wet, slicked back from her face, and water droplets still cling to her bare shoulders. The towel barely covers her, hitting mid-thigh and clinging to her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
“Door was open,” I manage, unable to tear my eyes away from her. “Thought you were expecting me.”
Her eyes widen in horror as they dart between me and the brownie in my hand. “You didn’t—tell me you didn’t just eat that.”
I look down at the half-eaten brownie. “Tastes good. What’s the problem?”
“Those aren’t—” She steps closer, clutching the towel tighter. “The door was open for Mae. She ordered these. They’re…special cookies.”
It takes my brain a second to catch up. “Special like…”
“Like they contain a fuck-ton of weed,” she hisses. “They’re not for you!”
I stare at the brownie in my hand, then back at her. “You bake pot? Like, edibles?”
“I bake whatever people pay me to bake,” she snaps. “Mae says it helps with her arthritis. Which is none of your business, by the way.”
I should be more concerned about accidentally ingesting edibles at six-thirty in the morning, but all I can focus on is how the water droplets are trailing down her neck, disappearing beneath the edge of her towel.
“I’ve always wondered what’s under that towel,” I say before I can stop myself. “Ever since that first morning we showed up.”
Her cheeks flush pink, but her eyes narrow. “It’s a little early for the weed to affect you.”
“It’s not the weed.” I shrug, dropping onto her couch and finishing the brownie anyway. Might as well commit to the mistake. “Just being honest.”
She makes a sound that’s half scoff, half laugh. “I’m going to get dressed. Try not to eat anything else while I’m gone.”
I watch her retreat to her bedroom, unable to stop myself from imagining what that towel is hiding. Those leather pants she wore to the races showed off curves that have been haunting me for days. I bet she’s soft in all the right places and strong in others. The kind of body that could take everything I want to give—for hours.
Fuck. Maybe the weed is hitting faster than I thought. My thoughts are too dirty, even for me.
A knock at the door interrupts my increasingly inappropriate thoughts. Before I can move, the door opens and an older woman steps in, her silver hair cut short and tattoos visible on her forearms.
“Morning, sweetheart! Here to pick up my order—” She stops when she sees me, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Well, hello there. You must be one of the Kane boys.”
“Maddox,” I offer, standing to shake her hand. “You must be Mae.”
“That I am. Where’s our girl?”
“Getting dressed.” I gesture toward the bedroom. “I’m just picking her up.”
Mae’s eyes drift to the tray of edibles, then back to me with a knowing look. “You sample my medicine, honey?”
I feel my face heat slightly. “Just one. Maybe two. Didn’t know what they were.”
“Mae?” Rowan calls from her bedroom. “Is that you?”
“Sure is, darling. Just meeting your friend here. Seems he’s enjoyed some of my special order.”
Rowan groans loudly. “I told him they weren’t for him!”
Mae cackles, the sound surprisingly youthful. “No harm done.” She walks over to the edibles, wrapping most of them in wax paper before putting them in her bag. She leaves two on the counter and winks at me. “Take these for the road. Might make the day more interesting.”
“Mae!” Rowan sounds scandalized.
“What? Boy looks like he could use a little relaxation.” Mae pats my cheek like I’m a child. “Don’t worry about her. She’s just protective of her baking.”
“The edibles are amazing,” I tell her sincerely.
“Aren’t they just? Girl’s got magic in her hands.” Mae heads for the door, calling out, “Thanks for the goodies, Rowan! See you at rent time!”
The door closes behind her just as Rowan emerges from her bedroom. I have to swallow hard at the sight of her. She’s wearing tight black jeans that hug her thighs like they were painted on, a deep red tank top that shows off her arms, and a black leather jacket that’s just worn enough to look lived-in. Her hair is dried now, falling in loose waves around her shoulders.
“You ready?” she asks, eyebrow raised at my obvious staring.
“Born ready, princess.” I stand, pleased to find I’m steady on my feet. “You look good.”
Something about the outfit makes her look different—more complicated, more dangerous. Like she’s putting on armor rather than clothes. It’s hot as hell, but it also makes me wonder what she’s protecting herself from.
Or is it the weed making me philosophical? Hard to tell.
“Let’s go,” she says, grabbing keys and a small backpack. “Before those edibles really kick in.”
The ride to the garage is quick, and my awareness of her body pressed against my back is heightened by the chemicals starting to flow through my system. Her thighs bracket mine as she holds on, and the weight of her chest against my back is a sweet torture I’m not eager to end.
When we pull up to Black Dog, she climbs off first, looking up at the sign with an unreadable expression.
“This is really where it all began,” she says, her voice distant as her eyes take in the garage.
“Feels like a lifetime ago,” I agree, parking the bike. “Hard to believe it’s only been a month since you destroyed our rides.”
Her face falls slightly at the reminder, but I catch her hand before she can step away. “I’m glad you did,” I say, the words coming easier than they probably should. “If you hadn’t crashed into our bikes, we might never have met you—and our diner would have been a mess.”
She looks stunned, her eyes widening as she stares at me. I drop her hand, heat crawling up my neck. “That’s definitely the weed talking,” I mutter, though we both know it’s not.
Inside, the garage is already humming with early-morning activity. Lucy is at the front counter, sorting through paperwork, while Nora types rapidly at her computer.
“Well, look who decided to grace us with her presence,” Lucy calls, her smile friendly as she looks up. “The famous baker who tamed the Kane brothers.”
“Lucy,” I say, gesturing to Rowan, “meet Rowan. Lucy runs the front desk and keeps us from falling apart.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” Lucy says, extending her hand. “We’ve heard all about you.”
“I’m sure you have,” Rowan replies with a small smile, shaking Lucy’s hand.
Nora abandons her computer to join us, eyes bright with curiosity. “I’m Nora, office manager. Your cake slices at the diner are the talk of the town.”
“Thanks,” Rowan says, looking slightly uncomfortable with the attention.
“Alright, everyone, get back to work,” I say cheerfully.
“See you around, Rowan,” Nora says, heading back to her desk.
“Bye!” Lucy adds in a cheerful tone.
I guide Rowan through the main garage area and toward the back room, where we keep the bikes that aren’t currently in service. As I push open the door, a flash of nervousness hits me. Although this whole thing was initially Rowan’s idea, somewhere along the way, all three of us got invested in making it special.
“Here she is,” I say, flipping on the lights to reveal the bike sitting in the center of the room.
It’s one of our older Harleys, a Sportster 883, that’s been completely rebuilt from the ground up. The frame is painted a glossy black that gleams under the fluorescents, but it’s the tank that draws the eye.
Instead of our usual Black Dog logo, this one features a stylized rolling pin with flour dust trailing behind it, forming tiny stars and hearts in its wake. The name “Rowan” curves along the side in bold, brush-style lettering—Ryder’s work. He spent hours getting the script just right, refusing to use stencils or transfer paper.
Rowan steps forward slowly, her fingers reaching out to touch the tank as if she’s afraid it might disappear.
“This is…” She trails off, circling the bike. “You did this for me?”
“It was a group effort,” I admit. “Brick handled the mechanical rebuild—engine’s basically new. I did the base paint and detailing on the chrome. Ryder designed and painted the tank art.”
Her fingers trace over her name, and I notice they’re trembling slightly.
“All three of you worked on this?” Her voice is thick with something I can’t quite name.
“Wanted it to be right,” I say, suddenly feeling awkward with the naked emotion on her face. “If you don’t like it?—”
I don’t get to finish because she launches herself at me, arms wrapping around my neck in a fierce hug. I catch her instinctively, my hands settling at her waist as she buries her face against my shoulder.
“No one’s ever done something like this for me,” she says, her voice muffled. When she pulls back, there are tears in her eyes. “Not just for me. Not without expecting something in return.”
I brush a tear from her cheek with my thumb, surprised by the tenderness I feel. “Easy, princess. You’re looking too damn cute right now.” The tears threading her lashes make her eyes look impossibly green, and the vulnerability on her face does something weird to my chest.
“I can’t accept this,” she says, even as her eyes drift back to the bike longingly. “It’s too much.”
“It’s not a gift,” I clarify, though that’s not entirely true. “It’s a loan, like we agreed. We just personalized it a bit.”
“A bit?” She laughs through her tears.
“If you don’t like the design, we can change it,” I offer, knowing full well how much time Ryder put into it.
“Don’t you dare,” she says fiercely. “It’s perfect.”
“Then hop on,” I say, stepping back. “Let’s see how she fits you.”
Rowan wipes her eyes and approaches the bike with reverence, swinging her leg over and settling onto the seat. Her hands find the grips naturally, and she adjusts her position with practiced ease.
“Perfect fit,” she says, and it is. We adjusted the seat and foot pegs specifically for her height, ensuring she’d be comfortable.
“Want to take her for a spin?” I ask. “Maybe do some riding after work today? There’s a nice route along the ridge that’s beautiful at sunset.”
Her eyes light up. “I’d like that.”
“It’s a date, then,” I say, the words slipping out before I can think better of them.
Rowan raises an eyebrow but doesn’t correct me, which feels like its own kind of victory.
“Let me just grab my jacket,” I say, turning toward my locker. “We can head to the diner on these. Show the others your new ride.”
As I walk away, I hear Lucy’s voice behind me. “They spent all night on that bike, you know,” she tells Rowan. “I’ve never seen them work together on something so intently.”
“Brick kept saying the balancing had to be perfect for your height,” Nora adds. “And don’t get me started on how many times Ryder repainted that tank until the design was exactly right.”
“Quit gossiping and get back to work,” I call over my shoulder, but I can’t help grinning as I grab my jacket.
For the first time in a long time, something feels right. Like we’re building something good here, something that has nothing to do with the darkness we left behind when we came back to Wolf Pike.
Whether it’s the weed or just the look on Rowan’s face when she saw that bike, I can’t remember the last time I felt this light.